Caterwauling

I was just washing dishes after I put a pizza in the oven.

A pizza … overnighted from PITTSBURGH!

And I laughed and laughed about some dipshit who subtweeted me that it “must be nice to not have a house to clean.”

Same nutbag who said it “must be nice to not have kids.”

Same tweet, in fact.

This of course preceded tweets — complete with photos showing their propped-up Sasquatch feet — bragging that someone else in the house was out paying the maid while she lazed.

You didn’t think I could find out. I saw the messages.

Anyway.

I’ll just get back to making lunch, cleaning the house, working and taking care of people who need it … and I’ll do it with gratitude and not complaint.

I’ll also do it without being tempted in the least to see what absolute fucking stupidity this post will inspire on Twitter.

So weird these days, venturing out.

Florida appears to be open again. Even though my part is supposed to open last.

Anyway, I made a run to support a friend’s business. Well it’s not hers but I’ve gotten to know the owner in my visits.

We had a brief exchange. I said it’s good to see you.

And I thought about the gravity of that statement. Like, yeah just going about everyday life can kill you now.

Sure, it always could. Eventually it will.

But hey, we’ve cheated a particularly cruel ending so far. Cheers to that.

Egg, donut, hot sauce. Worth it.

Doesn’t feel like Easter.

Doesn’t feel like much of anything, really.

I saw a photo from this day last year. And it reminded me of the day before this day.

And THAT reminded me how different it all is now.

I liked everything the way it was.

But at some point, I wanted different.

Boy, did I get it.

That’s the opportunity and challenge with being “a good little manifester,” as my coven leader calls me.

I say it; it happens.

I’m going to go manifest a good brunch now.

I got a call for an interview the other day. To a company I’d applied to back in November when I was originally put out on the street.

Although I am gratefully rehired, I took the call out of curiosity. Loved the interviewer. Loved the company. Love the location, the product, you name it.

Too bad I came off as a total idiot.

Accepting the call while at work was my first mistake. Hard to be in your mental happy place when it’s not necessarily your physical happy place. But I tried.

Then, she said look. You’re a director. This is mid-level. It “only” pays (she named a figure just below my current range).

“As a director,” she said, “you are probably making, like, what? About $250,000?”

When I hung up, I burst straight into tears. Their mid-level is what I’ve aspired my whole life to achieve. The director level should really be 250? Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck you, LVP, for saying I was “expensive.” When YOU were making exactly that.

The job was a good fit but not a great one. I have all the editorial experience and then some that they could ever dream of. The marketing, I’m rusty at. Rusty, not brain-dead.

Although it probably didn’t help that, post-250, I might have let a lot of things come tumbling out of my mouth that I shouldn’t have.

Yeah. Totes awks.

In any event, I haven’t sent a thank-you. I have the letter written in my mind. She already said she loved my cover letter. I know exactly how to follow up.

But I’m not ready to let go of that spark of hope that I had for one brief, shining moment that maybe just maybe there’s a fun change just ahead of me. Especially if my sneaking suspicions are true that LVP might come back. Forget fun — I’ll just be wishing for bearable, if that prediction comes true.

Two-fifty. Damn. I will never get over that.

Got screwed for the third time at a favorite restaurant today.

Three visits in a row now, I’ve not been able to eat at the same time as my friend or mom. Always have to send someone’s food back to be redone.

The thing is, the food is always great when it’s fixed. The managers are fantastic, and totally make up for the sucky server and/or cook. Two out of the three visits, I got my meal comped.

The thing is, it’s like any job. If the corporate equivalent of servers and cooks can’t get it right — and the manager ends up doing everything anyway — why do you need “help”?

I’m already at my wits’ end about so many things. Is it so much to expect that when I order grilled salmon, the fucking thing touches some fire at some point and isn’t oozing its innards all over my plate?

Maybe I’m just annoyed because it’s Sunday night and I have work to do that I would like to be done right. Without 75 questions that require more effort than tackling the project itself. Without “well I never did this before” from someone who’s been there exactly a year and a half LONGER than me and I KNOW my/our old boss didn’t do jack shit so SOMEONE had to do it.

And I have a sneaking suspicion I have to cancel next weekend’s plans. Unrelated but equally infuriating. Especially since I’ve spent money I guess I can’t afford anymore to make it happen because my landlord is putting me on the street AT CHRISTMAS.

Every once in a while, life throws you a do-over.

I went to a Brad Paisley concert a couple years ago. Facebook Memories likes to remind me of it every year around this time. And thanks to the power of a free ticket and a friend who knew I needed a do-over, I got one this weekend.

I was everything I dreamed it would be. So happy I got to go again and enjoy every single moment.

Southern Boulevard selfie.

Rewinding a couple years … I started out doing well the last time Brad came to town. Ate healthfully, had one (admittedly big-ass) beer, and that was that.

Then it rained. And we took cover under the tent of another group of tailgaters. Who had Fireball. Lots and lots of Fireball.

Yeah, the next several hours are a blur. I remember upgrading our tickets and getting super-close to the stage. I also remember going to the bathroom before the main performer’s set … and losing my ticket.

Kept this one!

I vaguely recall arguing with the people checking my ticket. Like, you just let me in there before. I dropped my ticket. YOU KNOW ME. Let me in. I even have a brand-new spiced-rum-and-diet-Coke sitting under my chair … waiting to be reunited with me.

No luck. So I sat on the sidelines and watched the concert on the Jumbotrons. And did some texting I shouldn’t have, that finally gave permission to someone who was trying to start a relationship with me to do so.

In any event, fast-forward to today …

This time I had a small beer in the parking lot. That’s it. Sat on my little square on our little blanket the whole time. Didn’t have to run to pee because I wasn’t drinking.

What was really cool is that we went to the very back of the lawn, high atop a hill that overlooks two lakes. I didn’t get any photos because my phone sucks.

Well except this one.

But that’s OK. We were far from the cigarettes and pot and, even better, other people.

The ground was soaked from Hurricane Irma. It quickly permeated the blanket and my jeans.

It was OK. We lived through the storm — now the skies were clear, a million stars were out and we were seeing a fantastic show for free, thanks to Brad donating a bunch of tickets to local first responders … many of whom were working the show so their families could go and invite their friends. (I.E., how I got there.)

In any event, I’ve said before that if I could do-over the part about the text conversation that started so many summers ago, I wouldn’t do it at all. I always wondered what I missed while it was going on.

But I see now that life happened as it needed to. And it all turned out OK.

And at a time when my outside world is littered with dead, uprooted trees and debris and fallen electrical lines, it’s good to have my inside world tidied up again.

In the mad dash to prepare for Hurricane #Irmagerd, I had the realization early and often …

I have too much stuff.

Not “good” stuff. Mostly lots of clothes and decorations from (C)Ross Dress for Less.

Mom especially has a veritable shitload of decorations from there and every store in Florida that has “Dollar” (Tree, General, Family) in its name.

And a part of me — the one that knew my “hurricane glass” windows would leak (and they did) — was sort of/kind of hoping most of that shit would wash away to sea.

I’m sure that’s what happened to my overpriced storage unit. (I have two — I pay for mine and mom’s down here, and hers up in Pittsburgh. That one is full of … decorations. Ten years’ worth of payments, for decorations. When I’ve bought her everything she’s wanted since then and SO MUCH MORE. She doesn’t understand my resentment.)

In any event, I’m sure my storage unit (here) is a mess. It’s in a low-lying area, and our area got pretty thrashed with rains and uprooted trees and shit. So that’s gonna be a big wet fucking surprise when I get back there.

I found two dresses I hadn’t worn, while I was there. I was so excited about them when I bought them. But they were too small then. So, into the bin they went.

Took them home this weekend and tried them on. They fit fine. Maybe a little loose. But … they looked kind of atrocious on me.

Didn’t find the dress I really wanted. An expensive one. If I’m lucky, the thing is waterlogged. If I’m not lucky, I’ll hate it as much as the other two.

Here’s the thing. I buy things in hopes of wearing or using them SOMEDAY.

Well, guess what. If this hurricane has taught me anything …

It’s that someday is TODAY. Rather, we should treat it that way.

So all my cute Paris stuff … sugar skulls stuff … DRESSES UPON DRESSES that I am saving for outings that haven’t happened yet …

Well, make ’em happen.

When it came down to it, the only things I wanted to save … if I absolutely HAD TO … were things that still had the tags on them.

You know, this shit …

Well, that and six hot-pink storage tubs of hot-pink sugar skull shirts, cookware, rugs, towels, candles and purses.

Know of any hurricane shelters that take pets and a Noah’s Ark of unused shit for your “someday” home?

And it’s not just that. it’s the good Zum Wash patchouli soap from Whole Foods. It’s the Moroccan lotion from fucking Suave of all things that I am absolutely in love with. It’s the “good” Dove Advanced Care deodorant that I save for when my skin is really in need of some TLC. It’s the Lodi wine that I keep holding onto because the place in Ft. Lauderdale that sells it is an absolute pain in the ass to go to.

It’s all the “luxury” shit I save for when I’m feeling worthy of using it … for when I buy a “backup” (Mom makes me buy two of everything. Including towels, rugs, dresses, shirts, and goddamn DECORATIONS. You ALWAYS need a backup, she says. And don’t use “just the one” if that’s all you have). Etc.

So during this hurricane, I wore some of my new T-shirts with tags on them. Drank the wine that I didn’t have “backup” bottles of. Ate the candy from Disney World that I would normally have saved, on the promise to myself that I will get back sooner rather than later to get more.

I know I need to apply this same attitude to many more things. (Career, car, apartment, etc.) But at least I know I need to let go of the shit that isn’t working … or fix what could be working better … to feel much lighter of spirit and, I hope, indebtedness to what’s mostly only holding me back at this point.

And the fact that I’d rather die than do most of it is a sign that I won’t miss it if only I can find something better to replace it with.

Otherwise known as Day 57 of my captivity.

I was through by 8:37 a.m. And it was just a bareback burro ride through the Mojave Desert without so much as a cup of coffee from there.

Normally I can leave the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad stuff at the halfway point of my trip home. My rule is no b.s. south of exit 70.

Which is fine … any other day. But today, I passed 70 … and was in such a snit that I drove some 20 exits south instead of 10.

And found myself at my old work building.

Yep, by freaking instinct, I ended up there.

I miss it so much, I could just die sometimes.

Ended up going to the cupcake shop I discovered two weeks before I got evicted and thrust into THNGVBD world. Got Momma three cupcakes. And we ate them ALL.

Now that I’m home (and frosting-filled), I went online to look for a new favorite wine. The winery in California doesn’t even sell it. And Total Wine is out of it across the country.

However, there is ONE STORE on the East Coast with my wine.

And you fucking guessed it — it’s at the goddamn wine store that was two blocks from the office I inadvertently DROVE TO today.

I’m not sure I can do this anymore. There are people I absolutely love … and there is everybody else. And the balance is never close to being, well, balanced.

I miss happiness.

Every now and again, I get the opportunity to hang out with people far more evolved than I’ll ever be. And it’s nice to see that I still have plenty of growing to do, rather than regressing to please certain others.

One of those friends is getting divorced. But it’s far from an ending. It’s opening up a whole new world to her.

I don’t have to feel like shit every day anymore, she tells me. I can smile again and not have to apologize for it. I don’t have to contain my own light so as not to outshine anyone else who happily asserts their power to snuff it out.

That message felt a little pointed. But only in the best way.

We — collective we, as there were five Gemini goddesses present at my favorite restaurant last night for a collective birthday celebration — spoke of raising our vibrations and how we (me specifically) need to attract better neighbors … people who appreciate our ideas and experience … and better leadership as high as the national and international level.

I’m calling upon the universe for help. It’s time. It’s beyond time.

Later she asked me what “my type” is. And I thought, hmm, do I have one? Do I dare aspire to define what I might want, like I could actually get it?

So I told her. And the list went on. I have a look I like, and I said “financially smart, too.”

She’s like slow down, girl. Men don’t have that much to offer. Start small.

Hard to raise your vibration to get what you want when you have to keep your expectations so low. I excel in not expecting anything at all. But look where that’s gotten me.

It may not be time to dream big, but to start dreaming again at all, I guess.

Last week I was drinking half-price Meiomi at Mellow. Worked past 10 that night and was perfectly happy. 

Today I’m buying it in a fuckin’ suburb after the worst day ever.  Worked till 11 the past two nights and I’m ready to keep on driving after my shitbag commute. 

Note I went from heathy hummus to cake.

How the fuck is it only Wednesday?!